


Teach Me How to Say Goodbye

by 26stars



Series: How I Met Melinda [4]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: AU Meeting, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Referenced Character Deaths, shameless use of Hamilton lyrics for title, stg this one's platonic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-17 08:19:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11847633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/26stars/pseuds/26stars
Summary: “so not to be rude or anything but I've been coming to this cemetery at this time on this day every week for fucking years and I've always been alone up until now seriously what the hell”  AU meeting





	Teach Me How to Say Goodbye

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't ready for how sad this got.
> 
> Still not sorry.

“Coulson was transferred,” Melinda says as she takes a sip of her tea. “The Avengers were officially disbanded after the mess in Germany. Officially. So officially, he works in R&D now. He’s not supposed to talk about any of their projects. But he’s as excited as he used to be about Cap, so…”

It’s taken only half an hour outside today, but the cold air is finally soaking through her jeans, and Melinda shivers. It’s December, a cold, gray-sky morning that makes steam rise from the tiny holes in the tops of her and Andrew’s to-go cups.

“He’s still trying to get me to transfer in with him,” Melinda goes on, wrapping both her bare hands around her half-empty cup, trying to borrow the last of its warmth. “I keep telling him no, but he keeps asking again. I think if you two could have teamed up, it would have happened by now.”

Andrew doesn’t say anything.

“Maybe someday,” Melinda admits, glancing up. “Maybe soon. It would be nice to have a change, if nothing else.”

She waits for another long moment, then drains the last of her tea and goes to set the cup next to Andrew’s on the edge of the headstone’s base.

“See you next week,” she says softly, stepping back and turning to go.

Andrew doesn’t say goodbye.

He didn’t say it then, and he doesn’t say it now.

She always walks the same path out, and by now, her feet can carry her without her needing to think. But today, as she walks carefully over the grassy plots back towards the paved footpath that leads to the cemetery’s main gate, Melinda’s gaze finds an interruption in the familiar scenery. And it’s not a fresh wreath of flowers, a flag, or a newly-turned plot.

It’s a girl.

She’s sitting on the grass with her hands shoved in the pockets of a black jacket, leaning against the rear face of a headstone of the next row but staring steadily at the one across from her. Her feet are propped on the ground, knees bent, and something white rests on the grass between her feet. She glances over once as Melinda approaches, meeting her eyes briefly as she draws near.

 _Young,_ Melinda thinks as she gets close enough to see the details—black eyeliner, dark hair poking out from a black knitted cap, and nowhere near enough clothes for the day’s temperature. Probably in her early twenties, but she certainly looks younger than most people Melinda sees in this cemetery. The thing between her feet is a large Styrofoam cup, Melinda finally realizes. No straw sticks out the top, though.

“Come here often?” the girl says, making eye contact as Melinda gets closer. Her tone is light but not cheerful, that careful balance that Melinda’s very familiar with—holding back pain with formality.

“Yes, actually,” she answers, stopping respectfully a few feet from the girl, her cold hands remaining tucked in her own pockets.

“Cool,” the girl responds, looking back towards the headstone she’s slouched across from. “I guess you can tell I’m new here, then. Who are you visiting?”

“My husband,” Melinda answers, because there is no term for the spouse who died. She is a widow. He’s only dead.

This time, the pause between answer and question is longer. “How many years?” the girl finally asks in a soft voice.

It’s none of this stranger’s business, but Melinda answers anyway because it’s easier to say it now than it ever has been, even though the fact still feels like the hardest thing in the world.

“He was my husband for seven. He’s been dead for three now.”

This time, the girl looks up at her, catching Melinda’s eye with a soft gaze.

“I’m so sorry. Was it an accident?”

Again, it’s not this girl’s business, but something about this conversation feels like a spell Melinda doesn’t want to break.

“Violent crime,” she answers, staring at the grass and kicking up a divot with her toe. “He was protecting a stranger from an armed assault.”

“Oh. That’s awful,” the girl breathes, looking stricken.

“It was,” Melinda agrees with a sad shrug. “But the girl he was trying to help that day is okay. I think he’d be glad to know that.”

This girl doesn’t say anything this time, and Melinda looks over at the headstone that she is staring at.

_Jiaying Johnson_

_1960-1991_

_Loving wife and mother_

_Ever remembered_

_Ever loved_

_Ever missed_

“My mom,” the girl says, staring at the headstone but obviously still aware of Melinda’s presence. “She died when I was little—I don’t really remember her. I have pictures, but…just that, really.”

The girl looks down at the cup between her feet and nudges it carefully with one toe.

“And this is Dad.”

She says it matter-of-factly, as if she’s making an introduction, but all Melinda can hear is

_Orphan._

“I’m so sorry,” she says automatically. The girl meets her eyes briefly before looking down again.

“Thanks.”

Silence descends, now sounding much louder than it ever has in this cemetery, and Melinda’s feet itch to resume her path towards the gate, but something keeps her rooted to the spot.

Just long enough for the girl to speak again.

“And after my mom died,” the girl says, gazing steadily at the headstone again, “my dad kind of went off his rocker. He was violent and careless, and it wasn’t long before he got himself arrested and I was put in foster care. Couple years later he got out of prison, took me back, and tried to get a decent life going again, and that’s one of the only times I remember things being any kind of _good_ or _normal_. But he kept getting these episodes, and they started happening more and more frequently, and every now and then he would get arrested and do some time and I would go back in the system…”

Without thinking, Melinda lowers herself to her knees in the grass, sitting back on her feet and listening intently.

“When he was himself,” the girl says, now staring at the cup between her feet, “he was my dad, who I loved. And I really do believe that he loved me, at least in the past—he just wasn’t great at controlling himself for my sake. And _no one_ was safe if he wasn’t himself. He couldn’t keep custody of me…but I couldn’t be adopted because he wouldn’t sign me over to the state, he always swore that this was the last time, that he was going to put his family back together…”

Melinda closes her eyes.

_You poor kid…_

When she opens them again, she sees tears on the girl’s cheeks that she isn’t wiping away. Instead, she finally moves, leaning forward and picking up the large cup, pulling her legs in until they’re crossed in front of her.

“Throughout those years of getting bounced around between my crazy dad and foster homes, I sometimes thought I would have rather been an orphan. Then at least I could stop worrying about him, I could find a better family…But now, I am one…and I kind of hate myself for wishing for this…”

The girl’s hands tighten slightly around the pliable material of the cup, and a soft crunch and a small puff of white dust signals a crack.

“It had been more than two years since I’d heard from him when I got the call last month,” the girl continues, tears still slipping down her cheeks, even though she looks more angry than heartbroken. “He’d gotten into a fight, and someone killed him, apparently in self-defense. I had to drive across four states to come claim his body because there was no one else to do it. He had a will that was one line— _Everything I have is Daisy’s_ —so I have his money now, but I didn’t when he died, so I couldn’t afford a funeral. Not like he had friends…”

The girl—Daisy—lifts the cup a little, still holding it like she’s trying to decide if she’s going to throw it at something.

“Cremation was cheapest, but it still cleaned out my savings. And I almost threw the cup out the car window after I picked it up yesterday—that’s how mad at him I still am. But I knew I would regret that, and I knew that I still couldn’t really fit my head around everything yet…I guess I still can’t. He’s gone. It’s all over. And I’ll never see him again.”

Melinda bites the inside of her lip, remembering going through this process herself three years ago.

 _That never stops,_ she tells the girl in her head. _You just go longer and longer stretches between remembering it._

Daisy suddenly climbs to her feet, a few strands of dead grass clinging to her leggings. Melinda gets quickly to her feet too, and Daisy pulls the cup into one arm against her chest, looking at her mother’s headstone again.

“He obviously didn’t leave any instructions,” she says as Melinda hovers a few feet away, “but I think he would have wanted to be with my mom. So…I guess this is me finally putting him to rest.”

There’s a long enough moment as she stands in unmoving silence that Melinda feels the need to ask, “Do you want to be alone?”

Daisy glances at her as she carefully pries the lid off the Styrofoam cup.

“Would you mind staying?”

Melinda meets her eyes and nods once.

_Great transitions always demand witnesses._

Daisy faces the grave again, and Melinda hears her take a deep breath before bending and carefully tipping the ashes out in a thin stream across the ground in front of the headstone. Bit by bit, she spreads the contents of the cup evenly over the plot, the fine gray dust settling between the blades of grass, some rising up like smoke as it lands. The girl covers the space in front of the headstone coast to coast, and when the cup tips downwards with nothing else coming out, Daisy straightens up and steps back, facing the grave solemnly as she places the lid back on the cup.

Melinda waits quietly, and eventually, the girl sighs.

“Rest in peace, Dad,” she whispers. Her eyes are dry, but there’s a catch in her voice as she adds, “You’re with Mom again. I hope you guys are happy.”

Melinda shifts on her feet for a moment before taking a few small steps forward until she’s close enough to touch the girl’s shoulder.

“You did good,” she whispers, barely squeezing Daisy’s shoulder.

She sees the girl bite her lip, and then Daisy looks over at her, finally wiping the remaining tears on her chin away with her sleeve.

“Thanks. And thanks for listening,” she says, looking a little embarrassed for the first time. “Sorry I just dumped my family history on you and then roped you into a stranger’s funeral.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” Melinda says seriously, squeezing her shoulder once more before lowering her hand. She's been doing all the talking in this place for years. It's nice to have another person to listen to.

Daisy shuffles her feet, glancing down at the now-empty cup in her hands.

“Are you walking out now?” she asks, glancing up questioningly, and Melinda nods.

“I usually get breakfast after visiting, actually,” she adds. “Would you like to come with me?”

Daisy looks up at her, disbelieving and hopeful.

“Do you mind if I do?”

Melinda attempts to smile, and though it seems to use muscles she hasn’t used in a while, she knows this is the right time to try.

“Come on,” she says, brushing the girl’s arm to lead her back towards the path out of the valley of death. “I know a decent diner a few miles away. You can ride with me if you want.”

“I probably ought to leave this cup in my car, though, shouldn’t I?” Daisy says as they walk, seeming to marvel at the lightness of the object in her hands.

“Or you can find a good place to put it down,” Melinda offers.

She doesn’t know when it happens, but by the time they get out to the parking lot, Daisy’s hands are empty.


End file.
